


Thrift Store

by oh_ms_omegalomaniac



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:25:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2406719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_ms_omegalomaniac/pseuds/oh_ms_omegalomaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick finds an unknown number inside a fedora as he looks for clothes at a Thrift Store.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrift Store

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is only based on existing real people- it is a work of fiction and is about characters who resemble real people. Please don't harass any real people or friends/relatives of real people about shipping.

"And you take your thrift store heels, and the leg warmers, you know? And ironically booty dance your cute little arse OUT OF MY LIFE!"

Patrick Stump laughs a little to himself as he picks up a pair of battered high heels, remembering a quote from a short film on Youtube. Moustachette, it was called, he thinks. Funny little film.

He puts down the heels and spins around, humming quietly. It was a little embarrassing to be here, in a thrift store, looking for clothes, but hey- being in a crappy punk band wasn't exactly the most profitable career. Maybe he should get a real job. Like at Walmart. 

The short blonde snorted. Nah, he thinks. Jobs require far too much effort. He wouldn't mind a bit of cash to shop somewhere other than a thrift store though. Patrick is about to leave when a fedora in pretty good condition catches his eye. Not bad. He readjusts his baseball cap and smiles, thinking about how he really should replace it with something a little more classy. A fedora will do nicely, he thinks.

The elderly woman at the counter smiles at him as he makes the purchase. "That'll be thirty cents, thank you." Patrick grins. Bargain. "Thanks! Have a good day." He walks out of the thrift store with a bit of a spring in his step, the newly-purchased fedora on his head. He doesn't have anything to do tonight, no dates, no friends to go out with. But he's in a good mood despite the loneliness. Maybe he'll try to write another song. The last one turned out pretty good, he thinks. Not good enough to show his band, though. They always laugh at the stuff he writes.

Patrick walks home to his tiny flat. Of course he does. No money for decent clothes, no money for gas. Not really enough money for rent, either. Trying to get his thoughts away from money, Patrick takes the fedora off his head and examines it, noticing some scrappy writing inside. It's a phone number. Strange, he thinks. Who would write a number in a hat?

A drunk person, that's who. Pete Wentz is staggering, for the third time this week. And it's only Thursday.

He's had too much to drink again. Again. Sometimes he worries about what the alcohol and various prescription (and non prescription) meds are actually doing to his body. But most of the time he doesn't really care. He'll get famous in some band, party hard and join the 27 club. A nice life, really. Not one that his family would want him to have, a little voice in his head whispers. Oh, no. Better drown out the voice with another shot.

The black haired man stumbles home. It's late, he thinks, because it's dark, but he really isn't coherent enough to discover about more than that. He's so glad that he leaves his flat unlocked. It's not like he actually has anything for people to steal. Well, he has a phone. A shitty Nokia, but it works. Works well enough for the girls to call him back. Not that he wants to talk to them, though. Girls are fine when he's drunk, but for the rest of the time...

Pete picks up the phone, staring at the too-bright screen. One new message from unknown number. He'll read it in the morning. Right now, it's kind of beyond him.

He wrote a text to the number. Probably the stupidest thing ever, trying to communicate with someone who writes phone numbers in hats, but Patrick likes doing stupid things sometimes. They make the endless monotony less monotonous. It's the day after the thrift store now and he still hasn't gotten a response. Disappointing. But what did he expect?

The musician is chomping down a bowl of cereal (for lunch, of course) when the phone does the vibrate-y thing and makes a cute little chirpy noise. Patrick knows he should probably change his ringtone to something that sounds less like a bird and more like something a punk rocker would appreciate, but he likes the birdy sound. It's cute.

The message he sent said something along the lines of 'Hi :)'. The message Patrick receives is something along the lines of 'who the fuck is this and how did you get my fucking number i don't care if i fucking fucked you'. Interesting. Maybe this person isn't exactly the best to be texting. But he's bored.

'I'm Patrick.'

Pete didn't even think anyone would want to reply after his hungover response. He was so, so sick of girls that he made mistakes with when he was drunk. I need to run dry, he thinks. Quit getting drunk every night. Maybe then he wouldn't have this Patrick person texting him. Had he hooked up with a guy named Patrick? He searches his memory and comes up with nothing. Nope, no Patricks.

'hello patrick, why the fuck are you texting me and who the fuck are you'

'I'm Patrick :) I'm texting you because I don't have anything better to do.'

He couldn't remember a Patrick, and besides, usually the drunk hookups gave up after a few texts. Too lazy to chase a guy with some resistance.

'well, fuck it, neither do i. im pete.'

Patrick smiles a bit at this response. The cusses and anger of the previous texts had surprised him, but at least this Pete person was being a little more civil now. Friendly was the way to do it, he thinks. Be nice.

'Nice to meet you Pete :) How are you today?'

'fucking hungover and wishing i didnt get drunk so much. how the fuck did you get this number, anyway?'

Pete rolls his eyes a little at the incessant smiley-faces. Really? They were so two years ago. The response, however, makes him grin and shake his head.

'I found it in a fedora at a thrift store.'

That would be about right, Pete thinks. A fedora. He wonders briefly about how drunk he was that night. Well, the numbers were clearly legible, so maybe not that bad. Good thing, that. He's starting to like talking to this guy. Cute, sunny optimism. A lovely change from the rest of the people Pete converses with- emo rockers and drunks. It was probably a little sad that he was smiling so much at a stranger's texts, but whatever. Smiling kind of dulled the hangover headache.

'ah. i musta been drunk.'

'That was my main theory.'

They text for a almost an hour, exchanging funny drunk stories, hangover tips and a few lyrics Patrick has written on the subject of getting drunk. It seems they both get a kick out of writing and making music, Pete playing bass and piano and Patrick playing whatever he can get his hands on. They text a lot over the next few days, to be honest. Pete neglects his clubs and drink for a few nights and Patrick ditches his band, just for the sake of exchanging words with each other.

'meet me irl.'

The text shocks Patrick a little. They've only known each other for a few days. Through text. Pete could be a psycho, for all he knows. But he trusts this guy. And is intrigued by this guy.

'Okay :)'

The coffee shop is crowded, which Pete supposes is good. If this guy is a pedo or whatever, at least there will be people around. He sits alone at a table, sipping a latte. Coffee, he thinks, is amazing. He's described the table to Patrick.

The blonde man strolls into the coffee shop, excited but nervous. He spots the table Pete described to him and the short dark haired man sitting there.

"Hello."

"Hello."

Patrick sits down at the table, awkwardly meeting Pete's eyes. "Um, do you want a coffee?" Pete volunteers shyly. "I'm too broke from the text bills." The two laugh and the awkward silence is broken. 

They talk for what seems like hours and a flustered employee has to ask them to leave the store numerous times before they do. The two leave the store chatting, Patrick so happy that they get along as well in real life as they do over text.

And Pete?

Pete doesn't know what to think. He feels like he's floating. He hasn't gotten drunk in a week, he's spent more time texting than partying, and he's falling in love with this adorable kid. 

It's getting dark outside and Patrick is looking around nervously as they leave the shop. "You okay?" The blonde man nods. "Yeah. I just don't... do much stuff. Outside. At night." Pete laughs and takes Patrick's hand, ecstatic when he doesn't pull away. "Let's go then! You have to see the city at night."

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on this site :) this is also posted on my Quotev account.


End file.
